Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  And now the very Wingèd Fame, with that great grief she bears,

  Filleth Evander’s town and house, filleth Evander’s ears;

  Yea, Fame, who erst of Pallas’ deeds in conquered Latium told:

  Rush the Arcadians to the gates, and as they used of old,

  Snatch up the torches of the dead, and with the long array

  Of flames the acre-cleaving road gleams litten far away:

  Then meeteth them the Phrygian crowd, and swells the wailing band;

  And when the mothers saw them come amid the house-built land,

  The woeful town they set afire with clamour of their ill.

  But naught there is hath any might to hold Evander still;

  He comes amidst, and on the bier where Pallas lies alow

  He grovels, and with weeping sore and groaning clings thereto;

  And scarce from sorrow at the last his speech might win a way:

  “Pallas, this holdeth not the word thou gavest me that day,

  That thou wouldst ward thee warily in game of bitter Mars:

  Though sooth I knew how strong it is, that first fame of the wars;

  How strong is that o’er-sweet delight of earliest battle won.

  O wretched schooling of my child! O seeds of war begun,

  How bitter hard! O prayers of mine, O vows that none would hear

  Of all the Gods! O holiest wife, thy death at least was dear,

  And thou art happy to be gone, not kept for such a tide.

  But I — my life hath conquered Fate, that here I might abide

  A lonely father. Ah, had I gone with the Trojan host,

  To fall amid Rutulian spears! were mine the life-days lost;

  If me, not Pallas, this sad pomp were bringing home today! —

  Yet, Teucrians, on your troth and you no blaming would I lay,

  Nor on our hands in friendship joined: ’twas a foreordered load

  For mine old age: and if my son untimely death abode,

  ’Tis sweet to think he fell amidst the thousand Volscians slain,

  And leading on the men of Troy the Latin lands to gain.

  Pallas, no better funeral rites mine heart to thee awards

  Than good Æneas giveth thee, and these great Phrygian lords,

  The Tyrrhene dukes, the Tyrrhene host, a mighty company;

  While they whom thine own hand hath slain great trophies bear for thee.

  Yea, Turnus, thou wert standing there, a huge trunk weapon-clad,

  If equal age, if equal strength from lapse of years ye had.

  — But out! — why should a hapless man thus stay the Teucrian swords?

  Go, and be mindful to your king to carry these my words:

  If here by loathèd life I bide, with Pallas dead and gone,

  Thy right hand is the cause thereof, which unto sire and son

  Owes Turnus, as thou wottest well: no other place there is

  Thy worth and fate may fill. God wot I seek no life-days’ bliss,

  But might I bear my son this tale amid the ghosts of earth!”

  Meanwhile the loveliness of light Aurora brought to birth

  For heartsick men, and brought aback the toil of heart and hand:

  Father Æneas therewithal down on the hollow strand,

  And Tarchon with him, rear the bales; and each man thither bears

  His dead friend in the ancient guise: beneath the black flame flares,

  The heaven aloft for reek thereof with night is overlaid:

  Three times about the litten bales in glittering arms arrayed

  They run the course; three times on steed they beat the earth about

  Those woeful candles of the dead and sing their wailing out;

  The earth is strewn with tears of men, and arms of men forlorn,

  And heavenward goes the shout of men and blaring of the horn:

  But some upon the bale-fires cast gear stripped from Latins slain:

  War-helms, and well-adornèd swords, and harness of the rein,

  And glowing wheels: but overwell some knew the gifts they brought,

  The very shields of their dead friends and weapons sped for nought.

  Then oxen manifold to Death all round about they slay,

  And bristled boars, and sheep they snatch from meadows wide away,

  And hew them down upon the flame; then all the shore about

  They gaze upon their burning friends, and watch the bale-fires out.

  Nor may they tear themselves away until the dewy night

  Hath turned the heavens about again with gleaming stars bedight.

  Nor less the unhappy Latins build upon another stead

  The bale-fires numberless of tale: but of their warriors dead,

  A many bodies there they dig into the earth adown,

  And bear them into neighbouring lands, or back into the town:

  The rest, a mighty heap of death piled up confusedly,

  Untold, unhonoured, there they burn: then that wide-lying lea

  Glareth with fires that thick and fast keep rising high and high.

  But when the third dawn drew away cold shadows from the sky,

  Weeping, great heaps of ashes there and blended bones they made,

  And over them the weight of earth yet warm with fire they laid.

  But in the houses, in the town of that rich Latin king

  More heavy was the wail, more sore the long-drawn sorrowing:

  Here mothers, wretched fosterers here, here sisters loved and lorn,

  And sorrowing sore, and lads whose lives from fathers’ care were torn,

  Were cursing of the cruel war, and Turnus and his bride,

  “He, he, in arms, he with the sword should play it out,” they cried,

  “Who claims the realm of Italy and foremost lordship there.”

  And bitter Drances weights the scale, and witnessing doth bear

  That Turnus only is called forth, the battle-bidden man.

  But divers words of many folk on Turnus’ side yet ran,

  And he was cloaked about withal by great Amata’s name,

  And plenteous signs of battle won upheld his fair-won fame.

  Now midst these stirs and flaming broils the messengers are here

  From Diomedes’ mighty walls; and little is the cheer

  Wherewith they bring the tidings back that every whit hath failed

  Their toil and pains: that not a whit hath gold or gifts availed,

  Or mighty prayers, that Latin folk some other stay in war

  Must seek, or from the Trojan king a craven peace implore.

  Then e’en Latinus’ counsel failed amid such miseries:

  The wrath of God, the tombs new-wrought that lay before their eyes,

  Made manifest Æneas come by will of God and Fate.

  Therefore a mighty parliament, the firstlings of estate,

  By his commandment summoned there, unto his house he brings.

  Wherefore they gather, streaming forth unto that house of kings

  By the thronged ways: there in the midst Latinus sitteth now,

  First-born of years, first lord of rule, with little joyful brow.

  Hereon the men come back again from that Ætolian wall

  He biddeth tell their errand’s speed, what answers did befall,

  Each in their order: thereupon for speech was silence made,

  And Venulus, obeying him, suchwise began and said:

  “Friends, we have looked on Diomede and on the Argive home,

  And all the road and every hap thereby have overcome:

  Yea, soothly, we have touched the hand that wracked the Ilian earth:

  Argyripa he buildeth there, named from his land of birth,

  In Iapygian Garganus, where he hath conquered place.

  Where, entered in, and leave being given to speak before his face,

  We gave our gifts, and told our names, and whence of lands we were,

  Who waged us war, and for what cause to Arpi w
e must fare.

  He hearkened and from quiet mouth gave answer thus again:

  “‘O happy folk of Saturn’s land, time-old Ausonian men,

  What evil hap hath turmoiled you amid your peaceful life,

  Beguiling you to stir abroad the doubtfulness of strife?

  All we who on the Ilian fields with sword-edge compassed guilt,

  — Let be the war-ills we abode before the wall high built;

  Let be the men whom Simoïs hides — we o’er the wide world driven,

  Have wrought out pain and punishment for ill deed unforgiven,

  Till Priam’s self might pity us. Witness the star of bane

  Minerva sent; Euboea’s cliffs, Caphereus’ vengeful gain!

  ‘Scaped from that war, and driven away to countries sundered wide,

  By Proteus’ Pillars exiled now, must Menelaüs bide;

  And those Ætnæan Cyclop-folk Ulysses look upon:

  Of Pyrrhus’s land why tell, or of Idomeneus, that won

  To ruined house; of Locrian men cast on the Libyan shore?

  Mycenæ’s lord, the duke and king of all the Argive war,

  There, on the threshold of his house, his wicked wife doth slay.

  — Asia o’ercome — and in its stead Adultery thwart the way! —

  Ah, the Gods’ hate, that so begrudged my yearning eyes to meet

  My father’s hearth, my longed-for wife, and Calydon the sweet!

  Yea, and e’en now there followeth me dread sight of woeful things:

  My lost companions wend the air with feathery beat of wings,

  Or wander, fowl on river-floods: O woe’s me for their woe!

  The voices of their weeping wail about the sea-cliffs go.

  But all these things might I have seen full surely for me stored

  Since then, when on the flesh of God I fell with maddened sword,

  And on the very Venus’ hand a wicked wound I won.

  Nay, nay, to no such battles more I pray you drive me on!

  No war for me with Teucrian men since Pergamus lies low;

  Nor do I think or joy at all in ills of long ago.

  The gifts, that from your fatherland unto my throne ye bear,

  Turn toward Æneas. We have stood, time was, spear meeting spear,

  Hand against hand: trust me, who tried, how starkly to the shield

  He riseth up, how blows the wind when he his spear doth wield.

  If two such other men had sprung from that Idæan home,

  Then Dardanus with none to drive to Inachus had come,

  And seen our walls, and Greece had mourned reversal of her day.

  About the walls of stubborn Troy, whatso we found of stay,

  By Hector’s and Æneas’ hands the Greekish victory

  Was tarried, and its feet held back through ten years wearing by.

  Both these in heart and weapon-skill were full of fame’s increase,

  But this one godlier: let your hands meet in the plighted peace

  E’en as ye may: but look to it if sword to sword ye bring.’

  “Thus have ye heard, most gracious one, the answer of the King,

  And therewithal what thought he had about this heavy war.”

  Scarce had he said, when diverse voice of murmuring ran all o’er

  Those troubled mouths of Italy: as when the rocks refrain

  The rapid streams, and sounds arise within the eddies’ chain,

  And with the chatter of the waves the neighbouring banks are filled.

  But when their minds were soothed and all the wildering voices stilled,

  The King spake first unto the Gods, then thus began to say:

  “Latins, that ye had counselled you hereon before today

  Was both my will, and had been good: no time is this to fall

  To counsel now, when as we speak the foe besets the wall.

  With folk of God ill war we wage, lords of the Latin town,

  With all-unconquerable folk; no battles wear them down;

  Yea, beaten never have they heart to cast the sword away.

  Lay down the hope ye had to gain Ætolian war-array;

  Let each man be his proper hope. Lo ye, the straits are sore.

  How all things lie about us now by ruin all toppled o’er,

  Witness of this the eyes of you, the hands of you have won.

  No man I blame, what valour could hath verily been done:

  With all the manhood of our land the battle hath been fought:

  But now what better way herein my doubtful mind hath thought

  Will I set forth, and shortly tell the rede that is in me:

  Hearken! beside the Tuscan stream I own an ancient lea,

  Which, toward the sunset stretching far, yea o’er Sicanian bounds,

  Aruncans and Rutulians sow, working the rough hill grounds

  With draught of plough, but feeding down the roughest with their sheep.

  Let all this land, and piny place upon the mountain-steep,

  Be yielded for the Teucrian peace: the laws let us declare

  For plighted troth, and bid the men as friends our realm to share.

  There let them settle and build walls, if thitherward they yearn;

  But if unto another land their minds are set to turn,

  And other folk, and all they ask is from our shore to flee,

  Then let us build them twice ten ships from oak of Italy,

  Or more if they have men thereto: good store of ship-stuff lies

  Hard by the waves; and they shall show their number and their guise;

  But toil of men, and brass and gear we for their needs will find.

  And now to carry these our words, and fast the troth-plight bind,

  Send we an hundred speech-masters, the best of Latin land,

  To seek them thither, stretching forth the peace-bough in the hand,

  And bearing gifts; a talent’s weight of gold and ivory,

  The throne therewith and welted gown, signs of my lordship high.

  Take open counsel; stay the State so faint and weary grown.”

  Then Drances, ever full of hate, whom Turnus’ great renown

  With bitter stings of envy thwart goaded for evermore;

  Lavish of wealth and fair of speech, but cold-hand in the war;

  Held for no unwise man of redes, a make-bate keen enow;

  The lordship of whose life, forsooth, from well-born dam did flow,

  His father being of no account — upriseth now this man,

  And piles a grievous weight of words with all the wrath he can.

  “A matter dark to none, and which no voice of mine doth need,

  Thou counsellest on, sweet King: for all confess in very deed

  They wot whereto our fortune drives; but fear their speech doth hide:

  Let him give liberty of speech, and sink his windy pride,

  Because of whose unhappy fate, and evil life and will —

  Yea, I will speak, despite his threats to smite me and to kill —

  So many days of dukes are done, and all the city lies

  O’erwhelmed with grief, the while his luck round camps of Troy he tries,

  Trusting to flight, and scaring heaven with clashing of his sword.

  One gift meseems thou shouldest add, most gracious king and lord,

  Unto the many gifts thou bid’st bear to the Dardan folk,

  Nor bow thyself to violence, nor lie beneath its yoke.

  Father, thy daughter nobly wed unto a glorious son,

  And knit the bonds of peace thereby in troth-plight never done.

  Or if such terror and so great upon our hearts doth lie,

  Let us adjure the man himself, and pray him earnestly

  To yield up this his proper right to country and to king: —

  — O why into the jaws of death wilt thou so often fling

  Thine hapless folk, O head and fount of all the Latin ill?

  No safety is in war; all we, for peace we pray
thee still,

  O Turnus, — for the only pledge of peace that may abide.

  I first, whom thou call’st foe (and nought that name I thrust aside),

  Lo, suppliant to thy feet I come! Pity thy people then!

  Sink thine high heart, and, beaten, yield; surely we broken men

  Have seen enough of deaths, laid waste enough of field and fold.

  But if fame stir thee, if thine heart such dauntless valour hold,

  If such a longing of thy soul a kingly dowry be,

  Dare then, and trust thee in thy might, and breast the enemy.

  Forsooth all we, that Turnus here a queenly wife might gain —

  We common souls — a heap unwept, unburied, strew the plain.

  And now for thy part, if in thee some valour hath a place

  Or memory of the ancient wars, go look him in the face

  Who calleth thee to come afield.”

  But Turnus’ fury at the word outbrake in sudden flame.

  He groaned, and from his inmost soul this speech of his outpoured:

  “O Drances, when the battle-day calleth for hand and sword,

  Great words good store thou givest still, and first thou comest still

  When so the Sires are called: but why with words the council fill?

  Big words aflying from thee safe, while yet the walls hold good

  Against the foe, nor yet the ditch is swimming with our blood.

  Go, thunder out thy wonted words! lay craven fear on me,

  O Drances, thou, whose hand has heaped the Teucrian enemy

  Dead all about, and everywhere has glorified the meads

  With war-spoil! Thou thyself may’st try how lively valour speeds!

  ’Tis well the time: forsooth the road lieth no long way out

  To find the foe! on every side they hedge the wall about

  Go we against them! — tarriest thou? and is thy Mars indeed

  A dweller in the windy tongue and feet well learned in speed,

  The same today as yesterday?

  — I beaten! who of right, O beast! shall brand me beaten man,

  That seeth the stream of Ilian blood swelling the Tiber’s flow,

  Who seeth all Evander’s house uprooted, laid alow;

  Who seeth those Arcadian men stripped of their battle-gear?

  Big Pandarus, stout Bitias, found me no craven there,

  Or all the thousand whom that day to Tartarus I sent,

  When I was hedged by foeman’s wall and mound’s beleaguerment

  No health in war? Fool, sing such song to that Dardanian head,

  And thine own day! cease not to fright all things with mighty dread.

  Cease not to puff up with thy pride the poor twice-conquered folk,